Reading too much meaning from existence
by mermaidNZ
Summary: Attending Oxford is almost a foregone conclusion for Sherlock. - Character study, covering Sherlock's childhood & university days. Slash: Sherlock/Sebastian & Sherlock/OCs. Part 1 of my "Higher than reason" 'verse, which eventually becomes Sherlock/John.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: **Attending Oxford is almost a foregone conclusion for Sherlock.

**Disclaimer:** none of the characters you recognise belong to me.

**Genre:** gen for this chapter, which non-slashers can read as a standalone story (chapters 2 and 3 are slash).

**Rating:** T for this chapter (M for chapters 2 and 3).

**Warnings:** angst! References to developmental and personality disorders, verbal/emotional child abuse, parental infidelity, and chronic insomnia. Possibly triggering for anyone who had negative childhood experiences with psychiatrists.

**Spoilers:** this story is set many years pre-canon, with only the tiniest spoilers for 'A Study in Pink'.

**Author****'s Note****:** I am currently studying at Oxford, so I couldn't resist the chance to depict Sherlock as a fellow Oxonian! The title of this story comes from the beautiful James song 'Lullaby' – I've included some of the lyrics at the end of the chapter.

* * *

At a fairly early age, it became evident that Sherlock Holmes possessed an incredible talent for reading people and making deductions from his surroundings. Astonishingly intelligent, the boy also came across as coldly unemotional and weirdly detached. He scared children, and unnerved adults.

Mrs. Holmes was proud of her bright younger son, but disturbed by aspects of his behaviour and others' reactions to his strange utterances. Her husband either ignored Sherlock or shouted at him to shut up, to stop being such a _freak_. Her friends refused to visit when the child was home, after he innocently revealed some of their secrets during a disastrous luncheon party.

So she took her 7-year-old son to the best psychiatrists in London, in the hope of finding a diagnosis (and a cure).

Sherlock sat in one leather armchair after another, his feet never touching the floor. Well-dressed and well-fed men asked him endless questions, their voices carefully modulated to simulate caring. They wanted to know how he perceived the world, how he felt about his family, and whether he thought that other people had emotions. Did he make up stories? Did he ever hurt himself or others, just to see what would happen? Did he experiment on animals? Did he light fires?

Sherlock always answered truthfully; he had not yet learnt how to lie.

Once banished to the waiting area, he would overhear snippets of conversation that he didn't understand, like "lacking empathy", "poor impulse control", "autistic savant", and "sociopathic tendencies". These phrases made Mummy sad; she'd come out of the consulting room in tears, and the two of them would go home in silence.

Each new psychiatrist said similar things, though, and the tension lines on Mummy's face became ever more marked as the months wore on. She began to look at Sherlock the way everyone else did, as though he were frightening and flawed and not-good.

Sherlock was deeply afraid that he would be sent away to a school for naughty boys; his older brother taunted him about the prospect, a cruelty which Mycroft quickly forgot but Sherlock never forgave. Or maybe they'd let him stay at home, but only if he took special pills (like their neighbours' daughter Helena, after she was released from hospital) or wore a straightjacket like the one he'd seen in an old book.

* * *

To stave off such a fate, young Sherlock tried to modify his problematic behaviours. He stopped arguing with his teachers, and asking them difficult questions. He no longer mocked the other boys for their stupidity, and consequently got into far fewer fights at school.

In order to improve his camouflage as a well-rounded and mentally-balanced child, he finally followed Mummy's suggestion about "developing some _normal_ hobbies, for God's sake, rather than dissecting dead rats in the garage!" Sherlock dutifully took swimming lessons and built up a stamp collection, but learning the violin was the one extracurricular activity he truly enjoyed.

He worked on his reading of social cues, and swotted up on appropriate etiquette. He smiled politely at adult women, and enquired after their family's health; he shook the hands of adult men, without commenting on their profession or their philandering or the half-dozen other things evident from their appearance or mannerisms.

Sherlock couldn't help observing the world around him, and drawing the obvious conclusions. It was just how his mind worked, and he was powerless against the unending inflow of information. Even when he closed his eyes, his other senses continued to hum.

The ambient sounds told him that Mycroft had just left the breakfast table to get ready for school, that Father was displeased by some news item in _The Daily Telegraph_, and that Mummy had closed a kitchen window to stop the draught. Outside, a pair of hedge sparrows expressed excitement about the hatching of their eggs. Unfortunately for them, one of their four chicks was in fact a cuckoo interloper which would soon kill their true offspring.

Nature could be so elegantly cruel.

It took an enormous effort of will, but Sherlock stopped _revealing_ what he saw and heard. Staying quiet most of the time seemed to mollify Mummy, and she made no further psychiatrist appointments. Father still complained to her when he thought Sherlock couldn't hear ("it's just creepy the way he watches us, with those big staring eyes"), but he shouted at the boy less often. Fortunately for Sherlock, his time and attention were soon monopolised by the mistress he'd installed in a newly-redecorated flat near St Paul's.

Sherlock never told Mummy about Father's affair; he never told anyone anything, anymore.

The only family member who could draw Sherlock out of his habitual silence was Mycroft. Seven years older than Sherlock, he was indisputably the favourite son: brilliant, handsome, confident, ambitious, and well-mannered, with the ability to adapt chameleon-like to any social setting. Sherlock admired him, but resented him far more.

The brothers sniped viciously at each other, so well-matched that neither could score an outright victory. Their arguments became perforce less frequent when Mycroft went off to university, but Christmas dinners remained fraught.

[By the time they're in their 30s, their fraternal relationship will have become a festering feud. Mycroft will intervene – Sherlock would say "interfere" – in his brother's life, by various nefarious means, although he will claim to be motivated by sincere concern. Sherlock will spit venom at Mycroft when they cross paths, and describe him to his new flatmate John as "the most dangerous man you've ever met."]

* * *

Attending Oxford is almost a foregone conclusion for Sherlock. His father had read Classics at Magdalen, then followed the well-trodden path into high finance (this was back in the good old days, when a City career required the right accent and antecedents rather than actual financial acumen).

His mother had read English at Somerville (back in the good old days, before that pioneering women's college went co-ed and therefore – in her view – downhill). Maggie Thatcher was one of Somerville's most famous alumnae; Mummy once had her photo taken with the Iron Lady, when they both attended a college fundraising event.

That picture still stands on the drawing room mantelpiece at Sherlock's family home, beside his parents' wedding photo and Mycroft's graduation portrait. Judging solely by the mantelpiece, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes do not have a younger son.

Mycroft had followed Father to Magdalen, reading PPE. He'd focused on the politics and economics aspects, taking only the minimum requirement of philosophy papers. Even as a young man, Mycroft had wanted to understand the forces and structures underpinning The System (and how to manipulate them to his own ends). The _why_ of the world was rather less important to him than the _how_.

Sherlock chooses to read chemistry, to Father's ill-concealed disgust. No-one in the family has studied anything so practical for several generations! But Sherlock finds science endlessly enthralling, and reassuring, and will not be swayed.

Sherlock is of a less traditional bent than his parents and brother (although in other ways he is considerably _more_ bent). When he goes up to Oxford to consider the options, he dutifully visits Magdalen and Somerville to please them, but tours several of the more liberal colleges on his own account.

In the end, he puts Wadham down as his first choice and (to his secret relief) is accepted. Though Sherlock doesn't tell his family, the deciding factor is the college's superior support for homosexual students. Awkward fumblings with boys at school have made him fairly sure of his orientation, but having a group of potentially receptive test subjects at college will help to confirm his hypothesis.

* * *

In some respects, Sherlock fits right in at Oxford. In the hard sciences especially, the university has a long and noble tradition of dedicated, detail-oriented, antisocial, and frankly odd people. He can discuss the minutiae of chemical processes with some of his classmates without wanting to tear his hair out at their staggering stupidity. Of course, none of them are quite gifted enough to be his true peers, but they are a damn sight closer than any of his schoolmates had ever been.

Sherlock's marks put him consistently at the top of his year, by far. His brilliance wins him all the prizes on offer, but doesn't win him any friends. However, his willingness to explain things (albeit in a condescending tone) to those lagging behind means he is tolerated, or at least not utterly loathed, by most of his fellow chemists.

The Radcliffe Science Library is conveniently located just up the road from Wadham, and Sherlock spends a great deal of time there. He loves the idea of being immersed in centuries of scientific thought. Even the _air_ in the library feels replete with knowledge, although that may just be the dust particles.

By second year he has read every book in the RSL's chemistry section, so he starts on biology and physics. A bout of botanical research in third year inspires an apposite simile: his mind is like a succulent plant, sending out tendrils in all directions and greedily soaking up nutrients. Sherlock writes this down in the notebook he carries everywhere but shows to no-one.

The college's own library is impressively well-stocked, and students have 24 hour access. When Sherlock can't sleep, which is quite often, he curls up in one of the library's beanbags and reads all night. He works his way through the medical textbooks this way, and dabbles in mathematics for a while. Then he moves on to law and criminology, fields which (to his surprise) turn out to be utterly fascinating.

Sherlock reads until the first beams of morning light cross the lawn and touch Wadham's chapel, making the honey-coloured stone glow. Dawn is usually his cue to return to his room, close the curtains, and go to bed. Sometimes he is lucky, and mental exhaustion will carry him over the edge into sleep; if not, he may stay awake for days.

As his chemistry workload is not at all onerous, Sherlock seeks out extracurricular activities to fill his waking hours. Wandering around Freshers' Fair in Noughth Week had been an overwhelming experience, as student groups of every conceivable kind were represented in the noisy crowded hall. These ranged from "Taruithorn" (comprised of dedicated Tolkien fans) to the Juggling Club (annual highlight: the grudge match against Cambridge), and from Scottish folk-dancing to scuba-diving.

Sherlock tries a few different things that pique his interest, but eventually sticks with the Fencing Club and Chess Club. He had excelled at both activities at school, quickly surpassing the other students and even his instructors. At Oxford he is pleased to discover a few people who can match him, which makes life more interesting.

He considers auditioning for the university's student orchestra, but decides after hearing its first performance that his talents would be utterly wasted therein. He does attend many enjoyable concerts by professional classical musicians; fortunately, the city's two main venues are just yards from his door. Sherlock is banned from playing the violin in his room, after complaints from other residents. Instead, he makes frequent use of the soundproofed college music room late at night.

Sherlock also takes various martial arts classes, as physical exercise can sometimes help with his insomnia. He appreciates the rigorous self-control required by these ancient disciplines, although he finds it _extraordinarily_ difficult to clear his mind. Meditation appears to be the one mental activity that is beyond his grasp...

* * *

As he works his way through the college library's shelves during first year, Sherlock finds himself avoiding the psychiatry and psychology texts. He even veers off into learning German as a delaying tactic (he does like the language, though; it is pleasingly scientific in its structure).

Whereas his other extracurricular reading projects have been motivated by intellectual curiosity and boredom, matters of the mind are intensely personal (and painful) to Sherlock. He berates himself for this rare display of cowardice. Finally, two weeks into his second year, Sherlock pulls a weighty tome entitled _Abnormal Psychology_ down off the shelf. Sitting alone in the silent library, as the rain beats relentlessly against the windows, Sherlock begins to educate himself about mental and behavioural disorders.

Unsurprisingly, he is drawn above all to the words that had so upset Mummy when he was a child. After an hour's reading about the autism spectrum, he can acknowledge that a label of "high-functioning Asperger's" might have been fairly accurate for his younger self. Would his life have been different if he'd been given a diagnosis and received some kind of special assistance? His childhood might have been easier, even happy.

But perhaps his intellect would have been dulled, like a never-sharpened knife.

Reading about sociopathy (more properly described as "antisocial personality disorder" these days, apparently) is much harder to bear. Many of the symptoms fit – too many for Sherlock's liking. He does not want to think of himself as callous, manipulative, and potentially a danger to others. If he _were_ a sociopath, though, would he be so bothered by the label?

The uncertainty makes his head ache. Sherlock knows where he stands with science, its immutable laws and incontrovertible facts. But psychology is too subjective, too easily twisted and misused. He peruses all the pertinent texts in the library, that night, then shelves both the books and the idea of seeking further psychiatric assistance: he is certain that no good could come of it.

He falls into bed at 7am the next morning, and dreams of leather armchairs.

[It will be many years before he can wear the "sociopath" label with a perverse kind of pride, and even wield the word as a weapon. By then, Sherlock will have cloaked any remaining vulnerabilities in disdain and superiority. He will tell himself that his detractors are just jealous, or afraid of what their tiny minds cannot comprehend. But he will still remember every insult ever hurled at him, and only partly because he finds it extraordinarily difficult to forget anything.]

* * *

**James – Lullaby**

Since your mother cast her spell every kiss has left a bruise  
You've been reading too much meaning from existence  
Now your head is used and sore and the forecast is for more...  
Every view they hold on you is a piano out of tune  
You're an angel, you're a demon, you're just human...  
Take that child and teach him senseless.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary: **Sherlock excels academically at Oxford, of course. But he passes through its social world like a ghost; or, to be more accurate, like a poltergeist.

**Pairings:** Sherlock/Sebastian, Sherlock/OMCs, Sherlock/OFC.

**Rating: **M for language and non-graphic sexual content.

**Warnings / Enticements:** angst! Depiction of a dysfunctional relationship, promiscuous behaviour, sex in inappropriate public places, and recreational drug use. Also, Sherlock in a dress.

**Spoilers:** set many years pre-canon (1997-2001), with only tiny spoilers for 'A Study in Pink' and 'The Blind Banker'.

* * *

Sherlock may have been unmatched in the academic arena, but he is much less successful when it comes to personal interaction. He passes through his college's social scene like a ghost. Or, to be more accurate, like a poltergeist. People look right through him when he is silent, and actively dislike him when he makes noise and disrupts proceedings.

When he first arrives at Wadham, Sherlock approaches socialising as an experiment. Communal mealtimes are a crucial part of college life, so he starts there. He circulates around the tables, sitting down with a string of strangers. Everybody's trying to forge connections, at the beginning of the year, so his method doesn't immediately differentiate him from the other new students.

Unfortunately, he discovers that breakfast/lunch/dinner conversations mostly tend to the inane: moaning about reading lists and tutorial essays on the one hand, gossiping and making weekend plans on the other. Sherlock tries to talk about _important_ things, like scientific advances and serial killers, but finds few people willing to engage with him.

By the end of first year, Sherlock has spoken to almost every student in college. And one by one, he's eliminated virtually all of them as viable candidates for friendship. There are clearly some decent minds in the sample pool – they were smart enough to get into Oxford, after all. But they can't keep up with Sherlock, or they're affronted by something he says, or their interests are just too different from his.

For instance: one of the biggest topics of conversation around college is the recently-elected Labour government. Wadham students tend to the liberal / left end of the political spectrum, so there is great hope for change. But Sherlock doesn't give a damn about the new Prime Minister, with his toothy grin and lying eyes. He can't even remember the man's name.

Anyway, he knows that his brother is behind the scenes somewhere, pulling invisible strings and making things happen (or not happen). If Sherlock were on speaking terms with Mycroft, he'd congratulate him on having amassed so much power by the tender age of 25. But he isn't, so he doesn't.

* * *

When he doesn't have the energy to meet new people, Sherlock has a fallback position: a table populated by fellow scientists, who at least accept his presence even if they don't actively seek it out. Sherlock's usual seat affords him great opportunities for people-watching. Studying the patterns of collective rather than individual behaviour is an interesting challenge.

By Easter of his first year, many of the freshers have formed friendships or relationships. Certain groups of people tend to sit together, and fall into predictable modes of interaction (intense discussion, good-natured mockery, loud laughter, and occasional loud disagreements).

There is some fraternisation between the new intake and the older students; this is particularly the case when they have common affiliations, like subject area or participation in extracurricular activities. The rowers are especially intense in their tribal attachment – it's rather homosocial, in Sherlock's view.

There is also a tendency for foreign language speakers to cluster. Sherlock notes, with interest, that the linguistic bond can override strong differences. Taiwanese and Chinese students seem happy to sit beside each other, disregarding their governments' perpetual state of high tension. Arabic speakers from across the Middle East also congregate together, despite long-standing ethnic and political rifts within the region. The opportunity to speak one's native tongue must be a powerful attractor indeed.

If Sherlock could find someone – _anyone_ – who understood him, he might be able to relate.

His brother is the closest, and he hardly counts. Sherlock is certain that Mycroft speaks his language, sees the world the same way, but has deliberately buried that capability under layers of political ambition and social polish. That betrayal only adds to Sherlock's sense of isolation.

Before going up to Oxford, Sherlock had dreamt of connecting with a fellow practitioner of deduction. During his systematic survey of the college population, therefore, he deliberately reveals his skills to everyone (by passing comment on either his interlocutor, or someone nearby). They're by no means rusty from disuse, as Sherlock never ceases to observe and extrapolate. But it's been years since he tried telling anyone about it.

In lieu of finding an equal, Sherlock would have settled for an appreciative audience. Sadly, even this proves to be a forlorn hope. Just like at home and at school, people at college seem to be unnerved and angered by what he says.

For instance, it turns out that nobody wants their nocturnal activities to be discerned and described to others over breakfast. Sherlock doesn't understand the problem. Well, all right, he can see why his occasional contradiction of students' claims ("No, Tom, you didn't score with blonde twins last night; you came home alone and passed out on the toilet floor") might give offence. But most of the time, he's actually corroborating their sexual boasts! Rather than threaten to hit him, they should _thank_ him.

* * *

It's not like he has any recent sexual exploits of his own to brag about. Sherlock _notices_ other males, of course he does, but the thought of trying to chat someone up paralyses him.

He'd fooled around with classmates at school, but that was purely physical and no conversation was required – or even desired. During one of their regular mutual masturbation sessions, Julian had actually clamped his free hand over Sherlock's mouth to get him to stop talking. Sherlock had bitten his palm, Julian had punched him in the face, and they'd ended up in the headmaster's office. Julian scheduled no further "biology tutorials" with Sherlock.

Even in the confines of Wadham's group for queer students, where the male members are unlikely to beat him up for signalling an interest, Sherlock's nerve deserts him. He reverts to the self-protective behaviour of his childhood, sitting in the corner and barely speaking.

Sherlock gets along better with the lesbians in the group. He and they aren't in competition for sexual conquests, nor interested in each other, so actual conversations can take place without awkward undercurrents. One of these girls, Antonia, is the closest thing he has to a friend. She is a forthright blonde physicist from Wales, and Sherlock has enjoyably robust debates with her during meals.

"You're quite fit, you know," Antonia says, apropos of nothing, one day in their second year. Sherlock blinks at her. He is aware that "fit" means "good-looking", in the British vernacular, but he has trouble associating the concept with himself. His body is really just a physical shell and support system for his brain, and does its job to an acceptable standard. It's in pleasingly good shape from all the fencing and martial arts training he does; otherwise, he has no particular opinion about its aesthetics.

His doubt must show on his face, because Antonia's eyes widen perceptibly. "My God...so there _is_ something you're modest about. I may die of shock!" She drops her mocking tone, and leans forward with an earnest air. "But seriously, Sherlock, it's true. You've got gorgeous eyes, nice skin, and cheekbones most girls would kill for."

Sherlock isn't used to receiving compliments. "Thank you," he says, assuming that's the appropriate response, but she isn't finished with him yet.

"Your hair could do with cutting, though, and you're much too pale and thin. Sadly for you, the 'heroin chic' look is on the way out. So stop living on coffee, and go sit in the sun occasionally!"

Sherlock gives Antonia a mock salute, then guides the conversation back onto safe ground by posing some tangentially related question about solar radiation. He knows the answer already, of course, but at least it distracts her from the topic of his appearance.

Still, her comments make Sherlock examine himself critically in the mirror that night. Without Mummy to insist on regular hairdresser's appointments, his hair has admittedly grown quite long – but he prefers it this way. And his face does look pinched and pasty, especially in contrast to his wild profusion of dark curls.

It's not that he's starving himself or anything. When there are books to read and experiments to perform, he simply forgets to eat. His irregular sleeping pattern often means that he misses at least one scheduled meal per day. And he can't make up for it by cooking for himself; he never learnt how, but (more crucially) he's not allowed to! The Wadham Students' Union voted in first year to ban Sherlock from the communal kitchen, given his habit of conducting impromptu chemical experiments using the equipment therein.

Sherlock decides to take Antonia's advice, and spend more time outside; maybe he can do some of his reading in the college gardens. His vitamin D levels undoubtedly need boosting. Furthermore, his observations confirm that the current preference among both females and males is for well-tanned skin. This is _ludicrous_, given Britain's pitiful annual sunshine quotient, but Sherlock knows that fashion trends are highly irrational. The salient point remains: if his pallor is diminished, perhaps others will like him better.

* * *

The events run by the university-wide queer students' group are big, and offer anonymity in a way that a smaller college group doesn't. Sherlock goes to a few of the club nights, but it's a disaster: he can't dance, doesn't drink (it clouds his thinking), and the music is too loud for talking. Guys do approach him on the sidelines, but don't stay long before they suddenly spot a friend across the room or make a one-way trip to the bar for a refill.

He tries going to some of the quieter LGB-Soc gatherings, like movie outings and pizza nights, but still gets nowhere. Sherlock can't understand what he's doing wrong, so he swallows his pride and asks Antonia. She's been at several of the same events, and has witnessed his troubles. She is characteristically blunt in response.

"You're so unapproachable, Sherlock – it's like you're radiating 'stay away' vibes. And when the brave ones talk to you anyway, you try to impress them with your massive brain. But you just come across as an arrogant, weird, mind-reading prick. Maybe you should work on your conversational skills, and give your deductive skills a rest?"

Sherlock has only two _modi operandi_: silence, and a rapid-fire verbosity that leaves most people in the dust. He is dismayed by the prospect of having to learn – or fake – an entirely new method of interaction, just in order to experience anal intercourse for the first time. Would it be worth it, given that he can achieve adequate satisfaction with his own hand(s)?

In the end, Sherlock decides to assume that every queer male in Oxford is an intellectual inferior who'd only disappoint him, and resolutely stops looking. He has books to read, anyway.

* * *

Sexual opportunity, when it finally arrives in Sherlock's third year, comes in an unexpected form.

There's a mathmo who lives on the same staircase as Sherlock, and they're on reasonably friendly terms. Sherlock is glad to have someone else of a vaguely scientific persuasion around (there are far too bloody many humanities students at Wadham). His name is Sebastian Wilkes, and he's the epitome of public school posh. He plays rugby, goes on pub crawls, and talks loudly about pulling girls.

So Sherlock is rather surprised to notice Sebastian looking at him: at his mouth when he steeples his fingers against his lips in the library, at his chest when he comes out of their shared shower, and at his arse when he's rushing off to fencing training in his tight-fitting white trousers.

Sherlock suspects that Sebastian is attracted to him, and decides to test this hypothesis. When his neighbour knocks on the door late one night, asking to borrow some camomile tea, Sherlock invites him in. Sebastian sits on the bed, waiting, while Sherlock bends over his food stash in the corner of the room. He knows his pyjamas are pulled flatteringly tight over his arse, and when he turns around he catches Sebastian staring. Sebastian starts to stammer an excuse, but Sherlock takes two strides across the room, falls to his knees, and kisses him.

Sebastian kisses him back with flattering fervour. The tea is entirely forgotten.

* * *

Sebastian is more sexually experienced, which is fine: Sherlock is eager to expand his repertoire. But as a lover, Seb turns out to be pretty damn selfish. He demands fellatio frequently, but rarely reciprocates. When he's the penetrating partner (which is almost always the case), he does little or nothing to ensure that Sherlock orgasms too. Nevertheless, it's all part of the learning process, and Sherlock does not dare complain.

With one eye to his future career in high finance, Seb is desperate to remain in the closet. So he still picks girls up at bars and clubs, often bringing one back to his room. Sherlock passes them on the stairs, sometimes; the girls look right through him, and Seb won't meet his gaze.

Around college, Seb pretends to barely know Sherlock beyond being his neighbour. He laughs at him, and dismisses his deductive ability as a "trick". Although Sherlock very well understands the drive to conceal one's true nature, after nearly a decade of doing it himself, this rejection is still...irritating.

Sherlock once tries to get some petty revenge, telling everyone in the breakfast queue that Seb had clearly spent some time on his knees the previous night. It's a minor indiscretion (Sherlock is careful not to specify the recipient's gender), and entirely truthful. But Seb is furious, and won't touch him for a month afterwards; he never volunteers to pleasure Sherlock orally again.

Sherlock has picked up enough football parlance to recognise this as a classic "own goal". He doesn't embarrass Seb in public again.

Seb's only doing a three-year degree, compared to Sherlock's four, and the last few months of his time at Oxford are consumed by preparation for his final exams. Their trysts dwindle to occasional tension-relief, and then a "last hurrah" the night before Seb leaves for London.

[They will not stay in touch, although Sherlock will follow Sebastian's stellar success from a distance and wonder whether he still keeps a secret boyfriend on the side. They will not see each other again for 8 years.

When they meet at the bank, Seb will smirk at him and call him "buddy". Sherlock will want to throw the bastard from Sir William's balcony for belittling him in front of his new friend John. John will perceive Sherlock's strong dislike of Seb, and appear to share it; Sherlock will feel quite irrationally relieved and grateful.]

* * *

His somewhat warped relationship with Sebastian has at least made Sherlock more confident about seeking out sexual partners for meaningless pleasure. In fourth year, he buys bulk quantities of condoms and lubricant (having read so many medical texts, he is hyperaware of the risks of unprotected sex), and hits the scene with renewed purpose.

He firstly spends a while observing the mating ritual on display at Oxford's gay clubs. Then, in accordance with his findings, Sherlock:

1) purchases more revealing clothing (close-fitting sleeveless tops and tight trousers to flaunt his lean, lightly-muscled form),  
2) experiments with cosmetics (eyeliner makes his eyes appear bigger, while lip gloss draws attention to his mouth), and  
3) starts smoking (asking someone for a light doubles as a good flirting technique).

He also decides to try illicit substances for the first time. Spending some of his accumulated chemistry prize money on chemical mood enhancers amuses him. He contemplates making some party pills in the department's labs, but caution prevails: he does not want to be sent down for something as _plebeian_ as drug manufacture.

Sherlock starts with a very small quantity of ecstasy, calibrates the dose for the optimal effect, and then branches out into other stimulants. He methodically works his way up to cocaine, which immediately becomes his drug of choice: it combines a fantastic energy rush with a sense of unparalleled mental acuity.

[Sometime in the future, Sherlock's coke habit will become a major problem. For now, though, he takes just enough to relax his inhibitions and increase his social confidence before a big night out. He is certain that he has it under control.]

* * *

This time around, older and more cynical, Sherlock takes a very different approach to meeting men. He has no intention of finding a long-term partner, or bestowing his affections upon anyone; he just needs more data, in order to formulate a coherent theory about his own sexual preferences and limitations. So he doesn't care about showing off his intelligence, or ascertaining every suitor's IQ. He doesn't even try to make conversation anymore, beyond a perfunctory exchange of name/subject/college.

To make things more interesting, Sherlock decides to make the pulling process into a bingo game of sorts: he will try to have sex with at least one student from every college. He goes after his goal with single-minded determination. Sometimes he has two or even three partners per night. Fortunately, he's young and has a short refractory period.

Most of his encounters are brief and relatively pedestrian, but some are _far_ more memorable. For instance, there's the time he wears a sequined silver dress, fishnet stockings, and heels to the Halloqueen bop at St Antony's, and dances on a table with a drag king dressed as Elvis.

The evening gets really interesting later on, when he goes home with a Wolfson student and his Linacre boyfriend. The threesome conveniently fills two bingo squares with one stone, but Sherlock will only think about that later: at the time, he's too busy having his mind blown as never before.

While on his self-appointed quest, Sherlock has sex all over Oxford. Most often, it's in the toilets of nightclubs, or up against the wall outside. Sometimes, actual beds are involved. He never invites anyone to his room, however. That's his private space, where scientific experiments are in progress on every flat surface and the walls are covered with photos of famous criminals. The college scouts are no longer willing to clean his room, so appalled are they by its contents; he hates to think what prospective sexual partners might say.

But Sherlock also takes in some of the city's sights. He gets off under the Bridge of Sighs opposite the Bodleian, and on a punt floating down the Cherwell River. Oxford's beautiful interiors are not neglected either. Sherlock admires the view from the Minstrels' Gallery above Teddy Hall's 17th century dining room, and contemplates the intricately carved stone ceiling of Christ Church Cathedral while he's on his back in the choir stalls.

As well as doing his own peculiar kind of sex tourism, Sherlock takes the opportunity for a little oblique, petty revenge against his family. There's a photo of Maggie Thatcher on his parents' mantelpiece, but none of Sherlock. So it gives him great pleasure to visit Mummy's old college, Somerville, and suck someone off while he's leaning on the wall of the Margaret Thatcher Centre.

Defiling Magdalen, where Mycroft, Father, and several previous generations of Holmes men studied, is even more enjoyable. He convinces a Magdalen student to sneak into the college's hallowed Deer Park, late at night, and to fuck him against a tree. Despite his back being scratched by the rough bark, Sherlock smiles his way through the entire encounter. He hopes his brilliant brother somehow discerns this sacrilege over Christmas dinner, and chokes on his mouthful of turkey.

* * *

No proper experiment would be complete without a control subject. So Sherlock approaches Felicity, one of the bisexual girls he's met through LGB Soc, and asks her to participate. He chooses her for two reasons. Firstly, she is a biologist, so she can appreciate his argument about the scientific method. Secondly, she's from Oxford's only remaining women's college, St Hilda's, so he will get to tick off that elusive bingo square after all.

Sex with Felicity is...acceptable. Her body is interesting to play with, and he knows enough from his anatomy texts to pleasure her. But it does not make his heart race; afterwards, he is physically satiated but not satisfied. He kisses her cheek, and returns to his room to sleep alone. His initial assumptions about his orientation (gay, not bi) were correct, evidently, though it seems he can still appreciate women in an aesthetic sense.

By the end of his final year, Sherlock gets through nearly all of Oxford's colleges (36 out of 39, to be exact: he's missing Templeton, Kellogg, and – unsurprisingly – All Souls), and a couple of the PPHs as well. He's quite proud of himself. It's certainly the hardest he's worked in his four years, even if nobody will be giving him any prizes for this particular achievement!

[A decade in the future, Sherlock will wonder at the purposeful promiscuity of his younger self. By then, he will have given up on casual sex – on sex in general, really.

He will declare to John that he is married to his work, and he will sincerely believe that no man could tempt him to be unfaithful. Just a few months later, Sherlock will be proven spectacularly wrong...for once, though, he won't mind at all.]


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary:** There is no doubt that Sherlock will do brilliantly when Finals roll around, so it's time to start making future plans.

**Rating:** M for language and non-explicit sexual content (no specific pairings).

**Warnings / Enticements:** angst; mentions of pornography, sex toys, and (hypothetical) enforced outing.

* * *

The question of postgraduate study inevitably arises whenever Sherlock talks to someone from the chemistry department. There is no doubt that he will do brilliantly when Finals roll around, so it's time to start making future plans.

Sherlock has perplexed and infuriated many of his tutors and professors over the years; he doesn't doubt that a few would _love_ to see the back of him. But others have been more appreciative and supportive, and they're strongly encouraging him to stay on for an MSc and a DPhil after that.

Sherlock doesn't need much persuading. Chemistry is still his favourite thing in the world, despite all his extracurricular dalliances with other subjects, and there's so much left to learn. Anyway, he doesn't particularly have anywhere else to be or anything else to do. Going back to his parents' house and looking for a mundane 9-to-5 job is a truly horrifying prospect.

So Sherlock enrols to do a Master's degree by dissertation. In his research proposal, he bullshits something about possible advances in the practical application of chemistry to crime-solving. It's just place-holding guff, until he narrows down his focus, but it does the job of getting him accepted.

He simultaneously applies to transfer from Wadham to Green College. It's a graduate-only college, specialising in medicine and related sciences. Sherlock hopes he can find more like-minded individuals there than he did at Wadham. Green is also conveniently located next to the Radcliffe Infirmary, and a short bus-ride away from Oxford's main teaching hospital. Perhaps he can develop a rapport with one of the mortuary assistants, and get hold of some body parts for experimentation purposes...

* * *

Sherlock sits his Finals, that classic Oxonian rite-of-passage, in early summer. It's a particularly cruel system, as much a test of endurance as intelligence. Students can be asked about _anything_ they've learnt during the previous two or three years. They sit up to a dozen papers, crammed into a fortnight; for most, their marks on these exams will entirely determine the overall grade for their degree.

He's usually prone to insomnia when life is boring, but his brain seems to react perversely to intense pressure. While Finalists all around him are pulling stimulant-fuelled all-nighters, or taking sedatives in order to get some rest, Sherlock sleeps perfectly well. He doesn't feel a pressing urge to revise; he is blessed (or cursed) with excellent recall. And with the extensive reading he's done, far in excess of the course requirements, he's certain he everything he needs in his mental database.

Sherlock finds exam-taking to be an enjoyable rather than stressful experience. It's a rare opportunity to showcase his knowledge without being criticised for showing off. His biggest challenge is writing neatly. It wouldn't do to score highly, but lose marks for his illegible scrawl!

Oxford has a long-standing tradition of wild celebrations at the end of Finals. A student emerging from his or her last exam is usually met by friends, sprayed with champagne or Silly String, given balloons or bouquets, and escorted to the nearest pub for many hours of drinking. The process is aptly known as "trashing".

But nobody greets Sherlock after his last exam. Almost all of the Wadhamites willing to speak to him, including Antonia, have already graduated and left Oxford; almost all of his fellow chemists were sitting the paper with him.

In the crush of Finalists leaving the Exam Schools, though, he is caught in the crossfire as other students are feted by their friends. Sparkly confetti gets stuck in Sherlock's hair, flour dusts his shoulders, and droplets of cheap bubbly spatter across his subfusc outfit. The various substances form a glittering, multi-coloured paste on the black cotton gown.

That'll need dry-cleaning, Sherlock thinks, and pushes past the crowds on Merton St to walk back to Wadham alone.

* * *

Finals complete, his undergraduate days over, Sherlock reluctantly goes back to his parents' house in Surrey. He just has to endure one last summer there before returning to Oxford. As a postgraduate, he'll be able to stay in college during the Long Vacation in future; in fact, Sherlock could also stay for the Christmas and Easter holidays, and avoid going home altogether. It's a very attractive prospect.

He gets his results in early July. He achieved a First, of course, and came top of his year – an achievement which carries with it a generous cash prize. Even more gratifyingly, Sherlock's marks are the highest for any chemistry student in the last _decade_. Mummy embraces him tearfully, and Father unbends enough to shake his hand and say "well done" in a gruff voice.

Mycroft sends his congratulations by e-mail. He can't get away from the office while China and Russia are negotiating the "Treaty of Good-Neighbourliness and Friendly Cooperation", apparently. Sherlock rolls his eyes, and deletes the message.

The post-results satisfaction lasts for a couple of days, but that still leaves Sherlock nearly three months with not enough to do. He's already read all the books in the house at least once, and the local library's non-fiction collection is pretty pathetic.

Sherlock decides to kill time by familiarising himself with London. He knows Oxford intimately now, but hasn't spent that much time in the great metropolis as an adult. So, several times a week for the rest of the summer, he takes the train up to Waterloo.

He starts his explorations by catching the Tube, but quickly discovers that he _hates_ it: the noise, the heat, the smell, and the way the lights go out intermittently. Worst of all is the unbearable crush of people, who all manage to shout at him without opening their mouths.

Taking buses is much easier to cope with; Sherlock especially likes sitting upstairs in the double-deckers, watching the cityscape go by. But mostly he travels around London on foot. He learns the layout, but also studies the ways in which people have learnt to live so closely packed together.

* * *

Wandering around Soho, long-famed as London's red light district, is particularly educational. Sherlock's not tempted by the rent boys, or the strip clubs, or the gay saunas. He got his fill of anonymous, meaningless fucking over the past year; in fact, he plans to eschew sex altogether this summer.

But Sherlock does come up with an ambitious project he could possibly undertake, if and when he moves to London permanently. Instead of collecting students by college, he might try collecting men by their place of origin. London is so multi-cultural that it'd take a good long while, and he'd be sure to experience a wide array of sexual practices and cultural customs as he ticked each country off the list.

He briefly envisions a scenario in which he 1) seduces a high-ranking envoy from some foreign government which persecutes its queer citizens, and 2) outs the man in some spectacular fashion. Ideally, it would cause an embarrassing diplomatic incident which Mycroft would then be forced to sort out. Sherlock doesn't underestimate his brother's capacity for elegantly inventive revenge, however, so he regretfully shelves the idea.

For the moment, though, it's Soho's sex shops that capture his attention. For all his exploits in fourth year, Sherlock has never really explored the world of sexual aids: his main focus during his quest was quantity, not quality. So he goes down to one basement emporium after another, clinically cataloguing his own reaction to everything he sees.

He spends a while watching the DVDs on the display screens. It turns out that he's only slightly aroused by gay porn and its overly-tanned, excessively-endowed stars. Unsurprisingly, watching straight couples fuck does even less for him. He doesn't see any lesbian porn, but presumes that it'll be similarly dull.

Sherlock finds the sex toys rather more fascinating. He lingers in front of shelves of brightly-coloured phallic objects and assorted paraphernalia. Finally, he buys a medium-sized vibrator, some anal beads, and a new bottle of lube. If he's going to spend the summer nights at home, bored and unable to sleep, he might as well have some fun!

He buys some handcuffs too – proper metal cuffs, not those silly fluffy ones – so he can work on his lockpicking skills. He's tempted by more exotic accessories, including a riding crop, but decides to hold off on such purchases until he has someone to use them on (or someone he trusts enough to wield power over him). Sherlock isn't yet certain which way his inclinations go, in this regard; proper, dedicated experimentation would be required.

* * *

Sherlock also embarks on a more formal, and respectable, course of study while visiting London. He registers at the British Library, and spends one day a week sitting in the Science Reading Room. He works his way through the forensic science texts and journals, taking notes on his brand new laptop (a very generous post-Finals present from Mummy). His reading gives him a good grasp of the current literature, and the gaps that need to be plugged.

For his Master's dissertation, Sherlock decides to focus on the improved identification of extraneous materials found at crime scenes. Existing techniques often lack subtlety and accuracy, it seems. For example, tobacco ash can usually be distinguished from dust, but specific types (cigars vs. manufactured cigarettes vs. roll-your-owns) or brands cannot be discerned. Better differentiation in this regard could be instrumental in finding criminals; Sherlock himself knows that smokers tend to be very loyal to their preferred poison.

The topic is the perfect intersection of his academic and personal interests. And the more Sherlock reads about current crime-solving methods, the more he thinks that the police could use his skills.

There are crime-scene technicians, the ones who take samples and run lab tests, but they mostly do grunt-work rather than investigation (Sherlock saw an episode of _CSI_ once; it was so laughably erroneous, both in scientific and criminological terms, that he wanted to throw something at the screen). And then there are the actual detectives, who don't tend to understand the forensics. They follow leads, doggedly at best and ploddingly at worst, with their linear thinking enhanced by a dash of experience-based intuition.

Neither of these jobs would be nearly challenging enough for Sherlock. And the obligation on police personnel to adhere to procedure – and obey the law – would hamper him too much. But maybe he could bridge the divide between them, as an outside consultant. If such a role doesn't already exist, he'll just have to invent it.

It's the most appealing potential career Sherlock has come up with so far, given that he's already ruled out many other options. He could surely make a fortune in the corporate arena, but feels that it would be a debasement of his talents; anyway, he's not especially avaricious.

Or he could spend his life in a research lab, working on pure chemistry that might one day have useful applications. He's never been good at delayed gratification, though. And he fears he'd get bored without real-world stimulation and real-time problems to solve.

Mycroft, who already runs Westminster from his ostensibly junior position in the Cabinet Office, keeps pushing at Sherlock to join the bureaucracy: "Your skills would be highly valued in Whitehall," he promises, "and you could rapidly advance through the ranks, as I did."

Although Sherlock isn't averse to the idea of public service, he's reluctant to work in the same sphere as his brother. In fact, he thinks he'd be doing the public a _disservice_ by doing so; he and Mycroft would surely tear the government apart while tearing strips off each other.

Sherlock just wants to deploy his reasoning ability in some meaningful way, and get credit rather than derision for his work. If he can somehow make a living out of it, that'd be a nice bonus. He wouldn't object to helping people either, so long as nobody expected him to be nice to them!

* * *

Sherlock's not the only one looking forward to working on his dissertation; his supervisor-to-be, Joseph Bell, has declared himself to be very keen on the topic as well. Via a series of e-mails over the summer, he points Sherlock at monographs and articles he should read. Dr. Bell has just been appointed to Oxford, having previously taught at Edinburgh, so they haven't met in person yet.

But Sherlock's already heard intriguing stories about the professor, beyond his brilliance as a scientist and as an educator. Earlier in the year, a couple of the department's DPhil students had come back from a chemistry conference. They told Sherlock that they'd just met an older version of him, "except this mind-reading guy is Scottish, a lot less rude than you, and tells better jokes."

Sherlock e-mails one of his former chemistry tutors, Rebecca, who had studied at Edinburgh. She confirms that Dr. Bell combined his remarkable observational abilities with impressive social skills. He could discern crucial details about a person at a glance, yet somehow manage not to alienate the person while explaining his deductions.

A bit of online research turns up another interesting fact: the professor has provided _pro bono_ assistance to the Scottish police, and even testified at homicide trials (mostly for the prosecution, but occasionally for the defence). Dr. Bell clearly has many strings to his bow.

Sherlock finds himself counting the days until he can return to Oxford and meet his new supervisor. He is reluctant to hypothesise without more data, but he can't help being a little hopeful. Maybe there is someone else who speaks his language, after all...


End file.
